


Animal Natures

by PsychGirl (snycock)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Humor, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 10:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/797320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the strangest things can turn a person on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Animal Natures

## Animal Natures

#### by PsychGirl

  
Pet Fly and Paramount owns them, and I'm not making any money, I'm just playing around.  
Much gratitude to the people on the SenBetas list for their terrific support and feedback: Marion, Sheila, T.W., and Tina.  
This is my first attempt at an NC-17 story, so I welcome all feedback and suggestions.  
Yes, I am thinking about a companion piece for Blair, but not until I finish the sequel to "Catalyst".  
This story is a sequel to:

* * *

I know I'm lucky. Most people don't get half of what I've got. I'm healthy, reasonably good-looking, and I'm nearly thirty years old and _not_ losing my hair. I'm pretty smart, I've got a good job, a (mostly) reliable car, and a cool place to live. A place that I share with an amazing, kind-hearted, gorgeous cop whom I happen to be head-over-heels in love with. And who, incredibly, seems to feel the same way about me.

So why do I sometimes feel like there's something missing?

Don't get me wrong - Jim's the best lover I've ever had, male or female. He's gentle, considerate, thorough, attentive...and it's not attraction that's the issue. He can drive me wild five ways from Sunday by just _looking_ at me from across the room. And he knows it, too. Don't think he hasn't tried _that_ little trick on me in the bullpen. Prick.

No, I think it's just that he's so... _careful_ all the time. Like he thinks I'm going to break, or he's going to hurt me, or something. You know, he's so straight-laced, so uptight, and this is all pretty new for him - well, not the sex with men part, but the relationship with a man part. He doesn't really say, but I can tell that his previous encounters were more about physical needs than emotional ones. So I think, between that and the fact that he had a pretty white-bread, upper-middle-class-American upbringing, he's just not very adventurous or wild when it comes to sex.

Which is too bad, because I could definitely go for having him lose a little control now and then. Pushing me up against the door, tearing my clothes off, taking me right on the floor of the loft without so much as a by-your-leave...or on the balcony...or in the middle of the bullpen...or during my Anthro 101 class...

Okay, I'm not stupid, I know those last two are off limits. I've got a bit of a voyeuristic streak, not a death wish. But that's why they're called fantasies, right? Because you know they're not real.

I shove all these musings aside as I pull into a parking space outside the loft. As good as I am with words, I know I could never explain these thoughts to Jim without sounding like a jerk and hurting him unimaginably. And I am never, _never_ going to do that. They're just ramblings, anyway. Something to occupy my brain when it's bored. Like I said, I know how lucky I am.

There's a sign on the elevator indicating that it's busted again, so I trudge up the three flights of stairs, open the door, throw my keys in the basket, drop my backpack, and announce that I'm home. Jim's in the kitchen....mmmm, smells like he's cooking beef stew. One of my favorites.

I hang up my coat and kick my shoes off and head over to the kitchen, rubbing my hands together in anticipation. He holds out the spoon as I come over. "Tell me if it needs something else," he says, "your taste buds are less sensitive than mine."

Well, duh. I taste, trying to balance what I like against what his senses can handle. "Maybe just a _little_ bit more salt," I say. He nods and goes for the salt pig. "I'm serious, just a little tiny bit," I say. He puts in the salt, stirs the pot, then puts the lid on.

"Thirty minutes," he says, and hands me a beer, taking his own and ushering me out of the kitchen ahead of him. On the way out he leans close to kiss me...and freezes. He puts his beer down on the kitchen counter and I hear him take a deep breath.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Are you wearing cologne?" he asks, his voice sounding kinda distant.

"No, man, you know I wouldn't do that to you." Colognes and perfumes are usually way too strong for him. "What is it?" I ask again. "Do I smell funny?"

"No," he says, still in that distant voice. His eyes look a little unfocused, too. "You smell...good. Really...good."

I can't help but chuckle, `cause he's told me before how much he likes the way I smell. "Well, okay, then," I say, and turn back towards the couch.

Before I realize what's happened, he's grabbed my shoulder and spun me and has me pinned up against the wall, one hand on each arm. I drop the bottle - thankfully, it doesn't shatter, but just rolls around on the floor, spilling beer everywhere. What's amazing is that Mr. Don't-Get-Anything-On-The-Hardwood-Floor doesn't even _notice_. He's standing incredibly close to me; we're practically touching. He's still got that unfocused look on his face, and his head is cocked and his nostrils are flaring slightly.

Then he grabs the collar of my flannel shirt, and the Henley I'm wearing underneath it, pulls them aside, and _bites_ me, right where my neck and shoulder meet.

I yelp, mostly with surprise, `cause he's never done anything like this before, but also because it's seriously turning me on. His mouth is hot on my skin, and it makes my knees turn to water. Now he's licking that area, and sucking on it, and that's sending all sorts of good signals down south, where my cock is beginning to stand up and take notice.

He moves up my neck, alternately biting and sucking, until he gets to that spot just beneath my ear, which he pays quite a bit of attention to. Then along the underside of my jaw. My body is thrumming like a bass guitar, and my hands are weakly clutching at his shoulders. His breath is hot and moist against my neck, and all I can think is, oh, God, please don't stop. Fortunately, he's still holding me up, because I'm so dizzy at this point, I think I'd collapse if I had to stand on my own. It feels like every nerve in my body is singing, and every time his mouth touches me, it sends little messages to my cock, which is now wide awake and begging to become part of the action.

He stops, and presses his body up against me, holding me against the wall. I can feel him against me, hard underneath his jeans, rubbing against me, and it forces a moan from my throat. He grips the back of my neck with one hand, twisting his fingers in my hair, and covers my mouth with his in a hot, searing kiss. With the other hand he grabs the front of my flannel shirt and literally rips it open. Buttons go flying everywhere. Thank God we covered the stew.

I have never been so hard in my entire life.

I try to say his name, say something, but my brain is completely disconnected from my mouth, and all I can manage are incoherent moans and whimpers. He's still kissing me, his tongue stroking inside my mouth, hard and fast and hot. He stops again, and pulls away, and I let out a desperate cry, but it's only so he can grab the bottom of my Henley and pull it up and over my head and off in one smooth motion. What's left of my flannel shirt comes with it.

Now his mouth is roaming across my chest, fastening on one of my nipples, biting and sucking, and I gasp and arch my back. It feels _so_ good, so damn good. He moves across to the other side, and I gasp and arch again, and my hands grasp his shoulders and pull him to me firmly; one hand goes to the back of his head and I stroke his hair. He moves back and forth across my chest until I'm practically screaming. I can't take much more of this. "Please," I whisper hoarsely, having found a rudimentary connection between my brain and my vocal chords.

He undoes my jeans and deftly pulls both them and my boxers down to my ankles. My cock springs free, pointing at the ceiling, damp and glistening. Jim looks at my cock, and licks his lips, and that in itself is almost enough to send me through the roof. My breath is coming in short, fast gasps, and I'm shaking like a leaf, and I want...oh, God, I'm not sure what I want, but if it doesn't happen soon I know I'm going to die.

He runs a finger appreciatively down the length of my cock, which makes me shudder. He stands up suddenly, grabs me underneath my armpits, and lifts me up and out of the puddle of my jeans and underwear. He sets me down in front of the dining room table and goes into the kitchen. I sway, unable to stand on my own, and catch myself by grabbing the sides of the table. He comes back, and I can hear him unscrewing the cap off something, and then I smell it - olive oil.

He pushes me, a little roughly, between my shoulder blades, and I suddenly get where this is going and, obligingly bend at the waist a little, gripping the sides of the table for stability. He slides two fingers, warm and slick with oil, into my ass, and I gasp as he stretches me. He's not being too gentle about it, either. His fingers withdraw, and I hear him unzipping his jeans, and the next thing I know the head of his cock is perched at my opening. I'm shuddering uncontrollably, and mentally begging, yes, please, please, now, do it, please. I wish I could say these things out loud, but that tentative connection seems to have been severed again, and all I can manage are wordless moans.

He sheathes himself in me in one smooth motion, and I howl, spine-tingling ecstasy shooting along all my nerves. Before I can move in response, he slides almost all the way out, then slams into me again. I cry out again, and then he's pounding into me in a smooth, regular rhythm, his hands holding my hips, pulling me back against him in time with his thrusts.

"Jim...please..." I manage to force out, and he reaches down and grabs my cock in an oil-slick hand and starts jacking me, still thrusting in and out of my ass. On his next thrust, he twists his hips and hits my prostate, and that's all she wrote. I scream his name and come hard, my body jerking as the release moves through me in waves, spunk spurting over his hand and the table and the floor.

Everything goes a little haywire for a minute; I can't see or hear or feel anything, and then I'm dimly aware of him gently pulling out of me. My knees and elbows turn to rubber and I start to collapse to the floor, except that he's got me, he catches me, and somehow we end up sitting on the floor, my back to his chest. He's leaning back against the wall and he's got his arms around me.

I put my head back against his shoulder and rest against him, letting the aftershocks roll through me. His arms tighten gently. "Blair, are you okay?" he says, in a low, worried voice.

"What?" I say, turning my head to look at him. The sheer absurdity of the question floors me. "Are you mad? Were you not just in the same room with me?" Am I _okay_? "I am...I am excellent, I am magnificent, I am sated, I am fulfilled, I am blissful, I am ecstatic, I am well and truly fucked. My God, I love you."

He gets that oh-so-cute shy half-smile on his face. "Love you, too, Chief," he says.

"What the hell _was_ that? You went, like, _barbarian_ on me. You tore my shirt off," I say, waving my hand vaguely in the direction of where I think my shirt went.

He gets this sheepish look on his face, and his cheeks turn slightly pink. "I know, I'm sorry..."

I cut him off. "Wait. Stop. Rewind. Excellent, blissful, remember? I liked it. In fact, I loved it. I just want to know why so I can make it happen again." But probably not for a week or so, I think, shifting uncomfortably and starting to realize how sore my ass is going to be.

He shoots a wicked glance at me. "You think you have enough shirts?" he asks.

"I'll _buy_ more shirts, man," I say, laughing.

The sheepish look comes back. "I don't know," he admits. "You just...smelled so good. I mean, you always smell good to me," - another half-smile - "but all of sudden, you just smelled...really, really good - I mean, fantastic. So fantastic all I could think about was bending you over that table and..." he trails off, pink staining his cheeks again.

"Mmmmm," I hum, turning and nuzzling into his neck happily. "I'm not complaining."

"Well, neither am I," he returns, smiling.

"That was a pretty inventive substitute for lube. I'm not sure I'm ever going to be able to go to an Italian restaurant again without getting pretty hot." He gives me another wicked grin, pushes my damp hair off my face, and kisses me thoroughly.

"Jesus, we made a mess," he says when we break apart, looking around the room.

And I sigh, because this signals the end of this lovely interlude, and the return of Jim Ellison the anal-retentive housekeeper. So we get up, and clean up the beer and other fluids spread around the room, but the whole time I'm thinking about what I did today, what I could have been in contact with that set Jim off.

The thing is, I can't think of anything that happened today that was different from any other day. I got up, had coffee, showered, Jim made breakfast - no, stupid, it had to be something that happened after the last time I saw Jim. So that rules out anything at the bullpen in the morning. In the afternoon I went to Rainier, taught my class, held office hours afterwards (which of course no one came to), hung out and chatted with the departmental secretary and one of the other grad students for a while, did a little reading, came home. Nothing different than any other day.

But there has to be something. I keep going over and over it in my head, everything that happened at Rainier, was there anything out of the ordinary. Have they painted any of the classrooms lately? No. Was someone in my class or in the department wearing a different perfume or using a different shampoo or something? But I wasn't close enough to any of them for anything to rub off on me.

Then it hits me, while I'm in the shower cleaning up. Oh, no way. No fucking way. It _can't_ be that. It can't.

Well, there's only one way to tell. I'm going to have to run some tests...

* * *

It's not like it's the worst day I've ever had, but I'm pretty beat, and I just don't feel like cooking. I hope Sandburg is up for going out to eat tonight. Who am I kidding? He's always up for it, it's just a question of whether we'll get to go to some normal place with food that I like, or some weird Indo/African/Antarctic fusion place that's just opened near the university, where everything on the menu is organic and healthy and tasteless.

Maybe Italian? But that thought sets off a complex chain of desire and guilt that I don't want to deal with. It's been two weeks since our...ah...little encounter and I still don't understand what happened. One minute I was fine, the next I was all over him like an animal in heat.

My first rational thought, once it was all over, was concern that I had hurt him. He said I didn't, said he enjoyed it - and he did look pretty blissed out, afterwards - but I noticed him wincing when he sat down for the next few days. I think it was just luck that I didn't really hurt him. I mean, I was out of it, I was possessed or something, I don't know if I would have been able to stop. And that's one thing I can't take. I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if I hurt Blair.

But...it _was_ pretty exciting. That's where the desire and guilt start getting all mixed up. I liked it. It felt good...really, really good. To be a little rough, to be with someone who could handle that, who wanted it that way...it was...hell, it was seriously arousing. I can feel my dick twitch now, just thinking about it. We've had sex since then, and it's been great, but that...that was...just amazing....

But I don't know why it happened and neither does he. I know he's still thinking about it - oh, he hasn't asked me about it since that night. But I catch these looks he gives me, these measuring, calculating looks, like the ones he gets when he's setting up some kind of test. It hasn't happened for two weeks, though, and it didn't happen for four years before that, so with my luck it probably won't happen again.

As I enter the loft Sandburg is just getting out of the shower, rubbing his hair with a towel, another one wrapped around his hips. I give him an appreciative grin and an even more appreciative kiss, trying to pull him closer to me and loosen that towel. He returns the grin, and the kiss, but sidles away from my attempts at the towel.

"Hey," I say, "Want to go out to eat?"

His eyebrows lift in surprise, but there's something else in his eyes...alarm? No, can't be, because he smiles easily and says, "Sure. You starved?"

"No, not really, just don't feel like cooking tonight."

"Okay, just let me get dressed," he says, and heads up the stairs.

I watch his ass, swathed in the towel, move up the stairs, then plant myself on the couch and turn on SportsCenter, half paying attention and half listening to Sandburg get dressed. I hear paper crinkling - he must have gotten new boxers or new socks or something. I'm momentarily distracted when the announcer starts talking about the Jaguars' chances in the NBA finals. He doesn't give them good odds...and he's probably right. They made the finals a few years ago, but they blew that chance, and then Roshman requested a transfer to Boston, and they haven't been the same since. The commentator throws to commercial, and I realize it's been over 15 minutes, and there's no sound from upstairs. I'm about to call up to Sandburg, irritated at the wait, when he calls down.

"Hey, Jim, can you come up here and help me with something?" he asks.

"Sure," I grumble, getting up from the very comfortable couch and heading up the stairs.

I come up the stairs and he's standing next to the bed, dressed in a pair of ratty old sweats, his hands linked loosely behind his back, legs slightly spread. In the Army, they call that pose `parade rest'.

"What the hell, Chief?" I say, "I thought you were getting ready to go out?"

"Yeah," he says easily, "I just need your help with something. C'mon over here."

I go over and stand in front of him. "What? What do you need help with?"

And then it hits me. A wave of scent, washing over me... _that_ scent; that incredible, intoxicating smell; that unbelievably powerful scent that reaches right past my brain and into my pants, dragging my dick to attention. I gasp, which doesn't help at all, of course, because it just exposes me to more scent.

Sandburg is watching me like a hawk, and he says, "What is it?"

"It's...that smell..." I groan, "...same as two weeks ago...that smell...again..." I can't stop myself, my hands are on his shoulders, gripping them hard. He looks up at me from underneath his lashes, suddenly grinning, and I realize - bastard! - he _knows_ what he's doing, he _knows_ what this smell is.

I'm fighting it, trying to push him away, and then I see his fist clench behind his back, and I'm lost. The scent overwhelms me and all I can think about is being inside him, burying myself deep inside him, where I belong.

I slide one hand around the back of his neck, grab a handful of hair, and tug on it sharply to raise his face to mine. God, I've always loved his mouth. Since the day I met him. Expressive, sensual...I cover it in a hard, passionate kiss, sucking on his bottom lip. When we break apart he's still grinning, but he looks a little dazed and unfocused. His eyes are huge, the pupils so dilated there's just a thin ring of blue around them.

I kiss him again, but in pretty short order I'm biting and sucking my way across his jaw and down the long tendons in his neck. He's making appreciative little gasps and moans, his head flung back, the long column of his throat exposed.

I stop long enough to grab his sweatshirt and pull it up and over his head roughly. I hear fabric tear as I do, but I don't care, because I just want to - no, need to - touch him, feel his warm skin against my fingertips.

I run my hands across his shoulders and down his chest, deeply engrossed in the textures, the contrast of smooth silken skin and soft wiry hair. His nipples harden as I brush over them, stiff pink nubs standing out from the brown mat of hair.

He's unbuttoned my shirt and is pushing it back off my shoulders. Impatiently I let go of him long enough to lose the shirt. Now his hands are roaming over my chest as well, down my back, and he reaches out and pulls my hips close, presses his body against mine. It's my turn to gasp appreciatively. His dick is so hard and hot, it feels like a branding iron against my leg. I slide my hands down his back, underneath the waistband of his sweatpants, and grab his ass. He gives a very satisfying moan at that, and one of my hands comes back up to grip the back of his neck so I can kiss him some more. With the other hand I part him, feeling for his opening...then I stop in shock and pull back slightly to look at him.

He's...ready for this.

He grins at me crookedly, face flushed, eyes shining. "Surprise!" he murmurs throatily, and laughs.

I'm a goner. I'm not sure I could stop now if the loft was on fire and an entire SWAT team burst in the front door. I strip his sweatpants off, turn him around, and push him roughly towards the bed. He clambers on with something that sounds suspiciously like "Whee!" I toe my sneakers off and strip off my jeans and socks. I grab the lube he's thoughtfully left on the bedside table; as I'm slicking myself up I look over at the bed. He's on all fours in the middle, waving his ass in the air, and looking around and grinning at me like the Cheshire Cat.

I climb on the bed, grab his hips, and without any preliminaries sink myself deep inside him. Oh, God...it feels so good to be inside him. I can feel his heartbeat pulsing through me...I could sit here, content just to feel him surround me. But he pushes back against me insistently. He's not grinning now, he's shivering and his breath is coming in short hitches. "Please...Jim, please..." he husks.

I drive into him, my hips pumping. He's pushing back against me rhythmically, panting, words bubbling out of him. "Oh, God, Jim, yes...fuck me...feels _so_ good, so good..."

I sit back on my heels, pulling him up with me. From this position I have a better aim at his prostate, and my next thrust causes him to gasp. We're both close, so close, and with one hand I reach down for his dick, hot and hard and slick with pre-come, and start pumping. I draw my other hand across his chest, playing with the sharp tender nubs standing up there.

It doesn't take long, and his head is falling back on my shoulder and his back is arching, and he's crying out my name, his fingers grasping spastically at the air in front of him, warm musky semen coating my hand as he shudders through his release. It's enough to send me over the edge as well, and I hold him to me and whisper, "Love you, Blair," as I empty myself inside him.

When I can breathe again, I maneuver us both down to the bed, regretfully slipping out of him along the way. I roll onto my back and drift pleasantly, until I realize that his body is shaking. "Shit, Blair, are you hurt?" I ask, panicked, turning towards him, sniffing for blood and running a quick seeking touch down his side.

He turns towards me, and his eyes are wet, and he's got both hands clamped over his mouth, and I realize - he's laughing. Actually, trying very unsuccessfully _not_ to laugh. And then I remember my realization just before that last burst of scent hit me. This was a test.

Oh, Christ. "Okay, what is it, Sandburg?" I say, sitting up and giving him my best I'm-not-taking-any-crap-from-you look.

It fazes him not at all. He sits up, takes a deep breath and composes himself, although his eyes are sparkling and the corners of his mouth keep twitching up. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, man; it's not funny, I know it's not...except...it kinda _is_..." he snorts, and loses it again.

"Sandburg. Just. Tell. Me."

He reaches across me and snags his sweatpants from the floor, digs in the pocket, and holds something out to me on the palm of his hand. Brightly colored fabric diamonds, sewn into the shape of a ball.

"Sandburg, that's a cat toy. Come on, I'm serious!"

"So am I," he replies. "Take a whiff - a _small_ one, `cause I don't think I'm ready for another round quite yet."

No. Can't be. I look at him in horror, then take a tentative sniff. Oh, shit. It is.

"Catnip," I groan, burying my face in my hands.

"It's like some kind of aphrodisiac to you, man," he chortles. "I mean, you just go seriously primal." He puts the cat toy back into the pocket of his sweatpants and dumps them back on the floor.

"Son of a bitch," I mutter. I swear my cheeks are so hot, my face must be glowing.

"Well, aren't you glad we figured this out now? And at home? Before we...say...went over to Simon's for Poker Night after Daryl had gotten a new cat? Or before we had to visit a crime scene at a pet store?"

The images those words bring to mind are so awful, I immediately repress them.

I drop my hands and look at him. "How did you figure this out?"

He grins. "I finally realized what was different about that day," he says, hands waving enthusiastically. "I'd been talking to Carol, the department secretary, and she had a kitten with her that day. See, her cat had had a litter, and she was letting Tony - one of the other grad students - adopt one of the kittens. So we were playing with the kitten, and it had a catnip toy, and when I remembered that I figured that might be the scent that set you off...so I decided to do a test and see."

"You don't seem particularly disturbed by this," I say, glaring at him.

"Are you kidding? This is great! Do you know how cheap this stuff is? And I can get it anywhere - even the good, organic stuff. Hell, I can grow it myself!"

I have to admit, the image of Sandburg turning the basement storage unit into an underground catnip cave, complete with grow-lights and an irrigation system, is slightly amusing.

He continues. "And it's so versatile! I can hide it in a million places, make tea out of it, bake it into brownies, take it along when we go camping..."

"Christ, Sandburg!" I groan, flopping back on the bed and covering my face with my arm.

He stretches out at my side, head propped on his hand. "Jim, I think you're overreacting a little bit," he says, placing his other hand gently on my chest.

"Oh, no," I say sarcastically, "why on earth should I, a human being, be bothered by having an extreme reaction to catnip? An extreme reaction, I should add, that turns me into some kind of monster. And which my lover seems determined to spring on me as often and in as surprising a manner as possible, despite the danger."

He gives that long-suffering sigh I'm only too familiar with. "First of all," he says, "humans _are_ affected by catnip. We've been using it for thousands of years. Granted, for most people it tends to have a sedating effect, but..." He shrugs. "Maybe you have a paradoxical reaction to it, like hyperactive kids who take Ritalin."

I shoot him a dark glance from underneath my arm. "I bet you know all about that from personal experience, huh, Chief?" I say, nastily. I'm annoyed and wouldn't mind a little shouting match. But he doesn't rise to the bait, just slaps my chest lightly.

"Nah, although I _was_ a little hyper, Naomi wouldn't let them give me anything. She just insisted that I was too smart for most of the school curriculum." He returns, doggedly, to the original topic. "But it's more likely that you're just extremely sensitive to the active components. Catnip is a member of the mint family, and some of the essential oils in mints are very stimulating. You're probably just more affected by the compounds in catnip due to your enhanced sense of smell."

I grunt in reply. I hate it when he's logical. And knows what he's talking about. Which is pretty much most of the time.

"Secondly, what the hell is this crap about turning into a monster?" This is punctuated by a fist thumping on my chest.

I wave my hand around in the air. "Oh, I don't know...tearing your clothes off, biting you, dumping beer on the floor, not paying attention to anything..."

"Ooooh," he says, mock fear in his voice. "Serious mayhem, there."

I glare at him again. "What I'm trying to say is that I don't know if I would have been able to stop. If I'd hurt you." My throat tightens painfully, but I manage to choke out the rest in a hoarse voice. "And I don't think I could handle that, Blair."

I barely hear his soft "oh" of comprehension as I lay back, blinking hard and clenching my jaw shut, concentrating on staring up at the skylight and taking slow, deep breaths. Once I feel like I've got things more under control, I look over at him. He's looking back at me seriously, all traces of amusement and mockery gone.

"Do you remember what you said to me, just before you came?" he asks.

"What?" I say, feeling like this question is coming out of left field.

He regards me patiently. "You said you loved me."

"Oh," I say, remembering. "Right. Well, I do."

He gives me a brilliant, sunny smile. "Exactly. You. You love me. _You_ said that. You weren't some crazed, drooling monster; some rabid half-mad Neanderthal thug. You were still you, just with...a few less inhibitions." He pauses, and looks me straight in the eye. "And one thing I have absolute faith in, Jim, is that you would _never_ hurt me. So, I wouldn't worry about it."

Jesus. For the life of me, I can't understand what I did to deserve this man. My thoughts must not be showing on my face, however, because he sighs, shakes his head slightly, and gets out of bed. He stops at the pile of clothes, pulls out the cat toy, and walks downstairs. I sit up to watch him. He goes out onto the balcony - stark naked, mind you - and hurls the cat toy as far as he can into the bay. He comes back inside, washes his hands at the kitchen sink, and climbs back into bed, stretching out next to me and snuggling into my side.

"What did you do that for?" I ask, feeling slightly guilty. "I thought you liked the effect."

"I do," he says, "but not if it upsets you that much. It's not worth it."

Now I'm feeling like a heel. "Well," I say, "I'd...I'd probably get over it, eventually. Once I got used to the reaction. Or knew that it was coming."

He gives me a sideways glance and nods solemnly in agreement. "We probably should expose you to more, in a controlled environment, of course, just to see if we can try and raise your tolerance, just in case."

"Sounds like a plan," I say, grinning at him and playing with his hair. He climbs up on top of me and we about to get into some serious necking, when the growling sounds emitting from my stomach remind me that we haven't had dinner yet. I push him towards the side of the bed, sighing, "Eat now, fool around later."

As we're getting dressed, I'm thinking about what he said, and I turn to him and say - a little apprehensively - "Do you think I have a lot of inhibitions?"

He comes over and frames my face with his hands. "I think you're perfect. I love everything we do together - and I mean _everything_. And, yes, sometimes it's fun to just cut loose. I mean, making love with you is utterly fantastic, but it's also good to just fuck sometimes, you know?" He punctuates this last with a kiss.

"Point taken," I say, smiling. "I'll work on it."

We head downstairs and grab our coats. We're outside in the hallway and I'm locking the door when I realize I don't know where we're going. "Your choice, Chief," I say, feeling magnanimous. "What do you feel like? Thai? Seafood?"

He gets this wicked grin on his face, and cocks his hips at me provocatively. "Oh, no," he says, "I'm thinking Italian."

* * *

End

Animal Natures by PsychGirl: jsnyder@snycock.com  
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Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount.


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